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Have you ever wondered what lesbians do when they get together? Is it all fingers and scissors and lips between legs, or is there WAY more to the slippery story of lesbian sex?

In this hot new anthology, enjoy twenty-one explicit tales of lesbian love. From shoe fetish to opera gloves, sex in public to quiet winter mornings, from a taste of taboo to strap-on DP to extremes that shan’t be mentioned here to full-on Sapphic bukakke, even connoisseurs of fine girl-on-girl action are likely to discover a new idea or two in this sexy new collection.

Whether you can appreciate this book’s title ironically or you’re authentically curious about what girls who love girls do in bed (or in parked cars or at the office or in a church basement or in a restaurant bathroom), grab a copy today and get in on the nitty-gritty secrets of lesbian sex.

Giselle Renarde’s erotic fiction has appeared in over 100 anthologies, including prestigious collections like Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Lesbian Romance, Best Women’s Erotica, Girl Fever, and the Lambda Award-winning collection Wild Girls, Wild Nights.

Excerpt from "What Do Lesbians Do In Bed?":

From The Customer’s Waiting:

I rushed to the back staircase and popped two buttons on my blouse. Nobody else worked in the basement. Just Levy. No one else would see.

In my wedge heels, I had to be careful walking down those slatted metal stairs. It really was scary in the basement. Everything was either concrete or metal, and the only sign of life came from Levy’s blaring headphones. She obviously hadn’t noticed me yet, and I gripped the metal railing, just watching her work.

There was something about dykes who looked like truck drivers that really turned me on. That was Levy’s style—dark blue pants like mechanics wore, and an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt over a tank top. Her sandy hair was about shoulder-length, but she always wore it back in a ponytail, with a baseball cap that had a bulldog on it.

Just the sight of her made me tremble. I was so wet she could probably fist me in one go if she wanted to.

And that was the kicker: so far, she hadn’t expressed any interest in me. None. At all. Every shift, I dressed a little more femme—brighter lipstick, shorter skirt, higher heels. Anything to grab her attention.

When I finally worked up the courage to call her from the bottom of the stairs, she didn’t hear me. I crept toward her cage until I was close enough to weave my fingers through and shake it.